


to count for eternity

by bottledlogic



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, F/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Season 7 AU, Team as Family, a lot of Reid POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-02-15 10:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2224836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledlogic/pseuds/bottledlogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer Reid isn't weak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one.

Spencer Reid’s head is spinning, and he can’t make it _stop_.

This is a stupid stupid activity, he thinks, but he continues to put one hand above the other, move one foot above the next. Hand, foot, foot, hand, and if he concentrates really hard, the spinning slows down, just a little.

It shouldn’t be this difficult, but he’s this tall gangly human being with almost no upper body strength, and he distractedly hears her laughing below. High and clear, it sparkles, _come on, Reid, nearly there now_. She’s pulling the rope, tighter and tighter, and he can feel the tension, can feel himself rising, and his head starts spinning even faster.

_Almost there, Spencer! You can do it._

(And then suddenly, someone sneezes, a clap of thunder peals through the gym, there’s a shriek of sound

and he lets go.)

* * *

There are days where he is five again, and he reads and reads and reads; curled up in his favourite armchair, in bed beneath the covers, aloud with his voice bouncing off the walls. He has always loved the idea of stories; truth and lies presented in complex and subtle layers, yet sound and accurate on superficial levels.

(he loves that stories are hidden.

no, that’s not right. _characters_ are hidden.)

He holds onto the notion that all stories have ounces of inherent terror. Or maybe, this is how he’s always seen it. Spencer Reid likes scary stories, likes the freaky and supernatural.

But sometimes, there are words he can’t unsee, can’t forget.

He’s never been much of an unreliable narrator.

* * *

“Hey. Reid.”

He pointedly ignores her, preferring to scribble down illegible words instead.

“Spence,” she tries again, allowing a soft plea to enter. “Are you – ”

“JJ, I’m fine. Really.”

He knows that she knows that he isn’t. He’s really not going to say anything, though.

He still has his secrets to keep.

* * *

He feels the rough carpet scraping against his knees and elbows, but right now, he doesn't care. Impending, he can sense his lunch coming back up, and his eyes are red raw (from crying or tiredness, he doesn’t know) and he lurches for the white ceramic bowl, grasping tightly onto the rim, and spills. Over and over, getting angrier each time. His throat is sandpaper, and once it stops, he takes huge gulping breaths, steadies himself, and glances at his reflection in the mirror.

And he _has_ to look at himself, before he can open the door and reach behind for it. Twisted genius, he thinks.

The whole team called him out on it, all those years before, but only two of his closest friends (family) managed to get to him.

_and they’re both_

_gone_

Another wave of tears hits him as he thumps, smashes, his hand against the mirror. His head bowed and frame shaking, he lets them run, lets the wetness soak in. His ears ring and his hand is red and bloody, and in one frantic movement, he reaches for the vials inside, grabs the needle, and sinks to the floor.

The track marks have long since faded, but the familiarity is shocking.

He’s always hated pain.

* * *

JJ is persistent and he has to give her credit for that.

She’s been coming by the bullpen more frequently since Emily died. This is how it usually works: she gets off the elevator, stares through the glass doors, and allows a wistful look to cross her face; spends half an hour with Garcia and her screens, just lounging, promises to go for lunch; half an hour in Hotch’s office with the blinds slightly drawn, but he can see the tense outlines and the muted defeat in his body; another half an hour in the bullpen, where Morgan usually joins him and Ashley, catching up on whatever gossip she’s missed and reminiscing with whatever story the rookie has missed (they usually feature Emily, and there are a lot of them).

And as JJ leaves, she squeezes his shoulder and stares him in the eye. (He can’t quite keep the contact).

“Spencer, come over tonight, have dinner with Will and Henry and me,” she offers softly.

Normal has always been a relative term for him, but this is as close as it gets for him, and he takes it.

Dinner happens, and he refuses to give in to the cravings, but it leaves him shaking. Will carries Henry to bed, and he collapses, relieved, onto her couch. She’s not crying, but he is.

“JJ, I – I can’t.”

She pulls him close and whispers into his hair.

“I miss her too, Spence.”

* * *

Aaron Hotchner is not the type to make lists of everything and nothing, and anything in between.

But he hugs Reid after they find him on Hankel’s farm, and it might have been one of the simplest things he’s ever done.

* * *

“Agent Reid, tell me what – ”

“It’s ‘Doctor’, actually.”

The tweed-and-bowtie-wearing man in front of him blinks once, and waits for him to calm his nervous tapping.

“Okay. Doctor Reid, tell me what happened that morning.”

He stays silent for the next hour, watching the clock tick over, before grabbing his bag and walking out.

* * *

Some days he wonders what it would be like if Emily didn’t die, if JJ wasn’t forced to leave, if Foyet didn’t go after Hotch, if Mason Turner never pushed his brother off the roof, if Riley Jenkins was never murdered, if his father stayed, if Colorado never happened, if Morgan wasn’t so blasé about running headlong into every explosion, if Rossi had solved Indianapolis twenty years ago, if people had understood Owen Savage, if Garcia hadn’t needed the validation of a complete stranger, if Haley had never left Hotch, if Gideon still believed, if he never decided to run off without JJ, if they hadn’t assumed Elle would be okay, if he didn’t go into the FBI, if his mom wasn’t schizophrenic, if he wasn’t a genius.

He’s always been fascinated by the idea of alternate universes.

* * *

He lies better now.

Or maybe it’s because no-one’s looking as hard, because it’s easy to assume that he, just like everyone, is still dealing with it.

But this morning, his head is sluggish for his standards, his movements jerky, and he tries to read his pages but the lights are far too bright. He thinks he catches Morgan staring, wondering, but keeps his eyes glued to the page.

“Reid.”

A low voice breaks his concentration, and he snarks back before his head snaps up angrily. “Morgan, I’m fine, okay?”

He stares into the eyes of his supervisor, before guiltily starting and mutters a faint apology.

“Sorry, Hotch, thought you were Morgan.”

“Reid, take a day off. Get some rest, no arguments,” he orders bluntly.

“Hotch, I’m fi – ”

“No, you’re not,” he cuts in. “You look like you’re about to fall over and your eyes are bloodshot. You can leave the reports for tomorrow. Get Morgan to drive you, or take a cab, just get some sleep. I need you awake and alert – we’ve got another case coming in the next few days.”

His eyes harden and he wants to wipe the impassive look and professionalism from his face, and he’s really not thinking straight when he fires back, out of nowhere. “Do you even miss her?”

The flash of intense pain on Hotch’s face doesn’t make him stop. If anything, it spurs him on.

“I mean, you’re working like nothing’s wrong. You’re still the first one here and the last one to leave, you did our _psych evaluations_ , Hotch! Who the hell did yours? She was _your_ friend too, wasn’t she? And we’re leaving for another case tomorrow, god, did you even stop to _think_ after the funeral?” His voice gets exponentially louder with each sentence, and he’s irrationally lashing out, he knows, but he _just doesn’t care_.

He furiously tosses his reports into his messenger bag and stumbles towards the glass door, avoiding the gazes of anyone (everyone). He feels the weight of the glass vial in his pocket, feels it burn through his slacks, knows he doesn’t have to wait long.

And when the cool of the bathroom tiles greet him, he wonders if he’s the only one who can’t cope, who can’t move on.

* * *

This time, they both sit in silence.

This is the fourth time that he’s been in Mr. Tweed-and-Bowtie’s office. He’s already catalogued the different plants lining the window, figured out the artists of the oil paintings hanging from the walls.

“Doctor Reid, you’re not wasting my time, but I hope you’re not wasting your own,” he says patiently, although with a slight ounce of frustration.

He looks up from his knees, and he can’t argue with that, can’t argue with time. His mouth is dry as he swallows.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “I just can’t.”

* * *

They solve that case, and another and another. The days blur into each other; he can still remember the most minute of details, but he finds it increasingly difficult to distinguish between one robotic day and another.

JJ still invites him over, and most nights, she sits side-by-side with him, holds his hand and waits for his cries to subside. He half-hopes that she can call him out on it, that she can straight-out just _ask him_. But she just lets him be, and he reasons that maybe she’s still dealing, and we all have our demons, don’t we?

It scares the fuck out of him when he gets home and sees Emily standing just outside his bathroom. He reaches forward desperately, to touch, to know.

A loud clang reverberates as the vial crashes to the floor, and he looks up, blinks dazedly, _she disappears_ , and slides his hand up to his face to feel the wet sheen of tears.

* * *

He sits on the damp grass, not caring that the dew is seeping through his slacks. It’s cold and uncomfortable and the edges of the headstone are rough and his finger traces over and over. The sun is too warm and he feels the tugging right from his chest, deep down, and it hurts _so much_ to breathe.

“God, Hotch. _I’m so sorry_.”

 


	2. two.

Seven months later, when Hotch calls them into the conference room, he doesn’t know what to expect anymore.

(Truth be told, he’s given up on _expecting_ things from people.)

* * *

Spencer Reid never dressed up like Superman when he was a kid, never ran around pretending to be Captain America. He’s read the comics and seen the films of course, but he’s never imagined himself as the saviour; he’s always been the one who needed to be pulled out of the ditch.

(The mirror in his bathroom is still smashed. He still hasn’t fixed it.)

So when he spies Emily tiredly seated at her desk (back where she belongs), he only hesitates for a moment before bringing her a cup of tea.

“Tea, right? No more coffee?”

She looks up at him, unsurprised. “You noticed.”

He only pauses for a bit before answering. “Yeah, I mean you noticed my headaches too. And besides, we should be keeping a closer eye on you,” he adds bitterly.

Her eyes turn sorrowful as he walks away.

“You’re doing a lot better,” she whispers to his back.

* * *

“I was mad at both of them,” he states plainly.

“Them?”

“You know who I’m talking about.” He gives him an irritated look. “JJ. And… Hotch,” he says with a hitch.

“Because they kept the truth about Agent Prentiss from you?”

“No, from all of us.”

“And how did that – ”

“ – Make me feel? Standard question, I know. I told you, I was mad.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I was going to ask how it affected your work.”

“It didn’t,” he grits out. “It didn’t directly affect my work.”

“And indirectly?”

He can’t stop the guilt and anguish from showing. “I think you know the answer to that. It’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

* * *

He picks up on more social cues than he lets on; he’s a magician and he always wants at least one trick up his sleeve.

Since Emily’s been resurrected, everything and nothing has changed. He still gets intense headaches, still feels like the baby of the team, still awkwardly tries to talk to women no matter what life advice Morgan gives, still memorises everything he reads, still has a statistic for almost every situation, still uses.

So when a dull paperwork day comes around (he won’t tell anyone, but he does look forward to these days; no one dies, after all), he stays behind after almost every agent has left. Almost, because he spies Emily still in Hotch’s office, low lights drawing a relaxed profile of the two of them.

He switches off his own light and tugs his bag around his shoulder, his natural curiosity leading him to sit in his car and wait until the last two BAU members call it a night. He sees them rounding the corner together, _laughing_ , it clicks so suddenly and he’s so angry and lost that it hurts.

He pulls out of his spot and the drive home is quick, his focus narrowed. Killing the ignition, he jumps out of the car and almost runs into her.

“Get out of my way,” he snaps.

“No,” she returns simply.

“How the hell did you get here first, anyway?”

Her mouth twitches. “We put the siren on.”

And white hot anger fires up. “Yeah, everything’s hilarious, isn’t it?”

Her expression sobers and she reaches out to grab his wrist. “Reid, let us in, and we can talk. Not out here.”

He tugs his arm away to open the door, and she follows a step behind. He dumps his bag next to the counter before turning abruptly to her.

“Make yourself at home,” he mutters. “I have to use the bathroom.”

She glances up sharply. “No, you’re not. I know what you’re going to do – ”

“You don’t know anything, okay? You – you waltz back in and you laugh like everything’s fine, like nothing happened. I _saw_ you and Hotch earlier, since when did you two become best friends? I mean, he knew, so I guess it wasn’t as hard for him, right? Do you have any idea what it was like waiting in that hospital? And JJ – ” He breaks off to laugh. “They should have just told us,” he finishes quietly.

The flash of anger dispelled the need, and now he’s shaking. She lets him have a beat, before leading them both to the couch.

“Get angry at me, fine, but do not put and of this on JJ and Hotch. Yes, I didn’t want any of you to know, because Doyle went after families, and he knew where _every single one of you_ were at any time. Not just you guys, but Jack, Henry, Will…”

“Bullshit. We’re FBI, we could have done something.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” she says flatly. “It took a specialised international task force the first time round, and this time, he had nothing to lose.” Her voice drops at his hardened look. “Did you honestly think Paris was a holiday, that it was _easy_? Reid, you lost one friend; I lost _six_. I lost a whole family.”

He mumbles something incoherent under his breath, and tries to look anywhere except in her direction.

“Reid, look at me.”

He does so, reluctantly. “Emily,” he cracks out. “We thought you were _dead_. I went to JJ for ten weeks and I cried on her couch, and she looked me in the eye and didn’t tell me a thing. I yelled at Hotch, and – and he just told me to take the day off. I couldn’t – can’t – ”

“Dilaudid?” She asks quietly.

His silence gives him away.

(And they sit there, side by side, no words exchanged.)

“It hurt so much,” he finally admits. “It still hurts.” He fidgets with his watch for a moment. “How did you know the first time?” And he’s scared, because _he hides_ , and he’s from Vegas, and he has a pretty decent poker face.

She gives him a long, measured look. “Do you remember Matthew Benton?” At his small nod, she continues. “His parents and my mom were both stationed in Rome when we were fifteen. It wasn’t a good time for either of us, but he was my best friend, and he turned to heroin to escape.”

“What about you? What did you do?”

She looks him dead in the eye. “The opposite. Ecstasy. I needed to feel something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Compartmentalising works well,” she says after a pause. “It works so well, that sometimes you forget it’s okay to feel… and then you _can’t_.”

(There are days where all she has a thick black straight lines dividing everything and nothing, and she walks on them, on the tip of her toes and poised and graceful.

The lines only really seem to bend when she’s falling falling falling falling.)

“…So you gonna tell Hotch?”

“It’s for you to tell. But if he asks, I’m not going to lie,” she says carefully.

“No, you’re not going to lie to him, just to everyone else,” he bites out.

“Spencer.”

He lets loose a shaky breath. “Is it wrong that I don’t want… don’t want anyone’s help yet?”

“Reid, we can’t – and we won’t – force you to do anything,” she tells him gently. “You have to make your own choices, and if you want or need help, well, Hotch and I are both here, okay?”

(And he can’t do anything except give her a simple nod.)

* * *

Elephant’s memory, everyone. Elephant’s memory.

* * *

She pokes her head through his office door.

“Hey,” he smiles. “Sorry, I’m almost done with these consults. Just give me another thirty.”

“Don’t be stupid, give me half,” she gestures to the mountain on her right. “I’m not going to sit and watch you fill out forms. Also, I read faster than you.”

“Not as fast as Reid.”

“Yeah, but who does?” She gives him a wry grin.

Minutes pass with the scratching of pens on paper, before he glances up at her again. “How is he?”

“How would you be?”

“Emily, that’s not an answer.”

“Well, maybe you should ask Reid instead,” she says with a hint of impatience. “Look, Hotch, I get that you’re the boss and you’re doing the whole ‘maintaining a distance’ thing, but it wouldn’t hurt if you just talked to him. His father left him, Gideon left, and he thinks you were a stone cold bastard during those seven months. Just… give him the chance to see that that’s not true.”

“And how do _you_ know that?” He challenges with a hint of fear.

Her gaze softens. “Because I was with you and Jack on the weekend when you coached his soccer team. Because I’m sitting in your office right now after everyone’s left, filling out forms _with_ you, not for you. And because you’ve called me ‘Emily’ more times in the last month and a half, than in the last five years combined.” She smiles sadly. “It’s okay, Aaron. We all have our ways of hiding.”

He doesn’t look entirely convinced. “So what about you?”

“I offered a… unique perspective.” At his raised eyebrows, she sighs. “A story for another day, I promise. Come on, let’s go home. You can talk to him tomorrow, but for now, I want pizza and a movie.”

“Home?” His mouth quivers but doesn’t quite form a smile.

“Seriously, that’s what you pick up on?”

She stands up and shrugs on her coat as he turns off the lights and draws the blinds shut. And he sends her a mock scowl when she mischievously tugs his hand into hers.

* * *

“Doctor Reid, when did you start using Dilaudid?”

He averts his eyes. “February of 2007.”

“And you’ve been continually using it for nearly five years?”

“No,” he looks up defiantly. “I was clean for almost four years.”

“But you started using again.”

Is that a question, Doctor Petersen?” He blinks rapidly, and unconsciously clenches and unclenches his fists.

“No,” he acknowledges. “My question is this: _why_ do you think you started again?”

He stays silent until the hour is almost over. And it’s not until Doctor Petersen opens his mouth to speak that he replies in the smallest of voices.

“Because my head hurt _all the time_. And then I got away with it, so I continued, even after she came back and figured it out again.” He stops to furiously rub his eyes. “She told me that she and Hotch would help, and I pushed her away. Again.”

“Doctor Reid, is this helping right now?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It is, but only because it’s mandatory after what I did.”

* * *

There are too many dead people in the world.

Of course, he doesn’t know many of them. Spencer Reid knows a lot of things, can remember a lot of people, but this is far beyond his comprehension.

However, he does know that one of them ( _one of theirs, oh god, she’s dead_ ) has their blood spilled bright and red on his hands.

(There are too many dead people in the world.)


	3. three.

He does a quick internet search, because he likes knowing, sometimes too much.

He tries not to think too hard when he reads that ‘psychological dependence to opioids is not considered a normal consequence of their continued use for medical purposes and is thought to occur only in susceptible individuals.’

* * *

“Reid, are you doing anything tonight? I need the company to go through all the _Doctor Who_ episodes that I missed.”

He glances over curiously. “What about Garcia? And Hotch?”

“She’s out with Kevin at the movies. And Hotch has yet to embrace the sheer brilliance and cheesiness of it. Also, he’s over at Jessica’s.” She gives him a warm smile. “Are you in?”

“Yeah, okay,” he acquiesces after a moment’s deliberation. “Season six, though. There were a lot of issues with them.”

.

And so he finds himself in her apartment, staring out the glass windows overlooking the Potomac. He doesn’t hear her come up behind him, only knows she’s there when she nudges him with the rim of the bowl holding endless amounts of popcorn.

“Hey,” she says. “You still there?”

He turns and his eyes are bright and glassy, and she feels a deep deep tugging in her stomach.

“Reid, are you – ?”

“Yeah,” he admits quietly.

“What do you need?” She asks after a moment.

He swallows. “I need to not be angry at you and Hotch and JJ.” _I need to not be angry at myself and Hankel and all the UNSUBs and the whole fucking world_. “I need time, okay Emily? Just – Let’s just watch this.”

He brushes past her to the couch and she follows. He reaches for the remote with shaky hands and she gently covers them with her own.

“Hey. We’re not going to leave you alone, okay? You have issues with us, you can come and vent and yell all you like, whenever you want but preferably not at work. But none of us are going to give up on you,” she says quietly, fiercely.

They sit back and watch in silence, save for the crunching of popcorn and the shuffling of feet. Halfway through, she mutters, “Huh. Didn’t see that one coming.”

He gives her a half-smile. “Yeah, the internet kind of exploded when that happened."

“I mean, _their daughter_? What the hell were they thinking?”

“Don’t worry, it gets better. Well, it makes more sense, at least.”

“Yeah, it better. Such a waste of a character if it doesn’t,” she says.

They get through another four and a bit before she realises that he’s fallen asleep next to her. Instantly turning her attention away from the screen, she checks his breathing and notes with a breath of relief that it’s normal.

(She hates that she knows from past experience.)

She tucks a blanket around him and settles in for the finale; one eye on the screen and one on the prone form. Around midnight, the credits roll, and she reaches for the pen and pad of paper lying on the coffee table.

And she writes.

.

He disentangles himself from the couch just as the sun peeks through the windows. Stepping over her, he spies the note on the edge of the table and guiltily swipes it before heading out the door. It’s not until he enters the safety of his car that he opens it.

_Spencer –_

_You’re right; it did get better. Absolutely ridiculous and heartwarming, but I guess that’s science fiction. The ending, though – everybody lies. Sometimes it’s justifiable, sometimes disgustingly so. And I don’t think I’ve said it, but I’m really, truly sorry for that. The selfish part of me wants to just move on, and the other selfish part wishes that I hadn’t come back at all. Please don’t think that I don’t know or don’t care – there’s stuff hidden behind my mirrors too._

_Emily._

* * *

“Tell me about Kyle Lawrence.”

“His mother abandoned him when he was eleven, father died of colon cancer four years later, spent the next three years in foster care. Wasn’t an extraordinarily difficult kid, average grades, but met a girl who introduced him to the wrong type of people.”

“Juvenile delinquents?”

Reid gives him an indecipherable look. “No, it was a cult.”

“A cult?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t hard to remove him from all of his family and friends anyway. Found spiritual enlightenment and acceptance and was becoming one of the trusted followers until he realised his mom was also living on the same compound.”

“Must have been traumatic.”

“It confused him,” he says bluntly. “Monogamy wasn’t high on their list of priorities.”

He pauses to stare out the window. “I mean, he was abandoned, taken in by this cult, corrupted...”

“So there was nothing you could do for him?”

“That’s not true,” he says half-heartedly. “No one’s beyond saving.”

“And do _you_ believe that, Doctor Reid?”

“Depends when you ask me. Five years ago, probably yes. Today, not really. Tomorrow?” He laughs darkly. “It doesn’t matter. Everybody dies.”

* * *

She came back.

She comes back, and this is an absolute truth.

She comes back, and she sees JJ’s guilt and Garcia’s fear and Rossi’s pain and Hotch’s distance and Ashley’s absence and Morgan’s anger and Reid’s betrayal.

She comes back, and half the time she wishes she hadn’t.

(She came back, but she doesn’t tell them how much of her didn’t.)

* * *

They play laser tag, all seven of them.

Despite Rossi’s (good-natured) grumbling and Garcia’s hesitance at the symbolism behind shooting at one another, they actually enjoy themselves.

(It ends up being Emily, Reid and himself, versus Rossi, Morgan, Garcia, and JJ.  Rossi only wishes the hundred and forty dollars wasn’t diluted amongst four people instead of three.)

He sees Reid struggling to remove the vest, and he leans over involuntarily to tug it free over his head. He freezes for a split second, before allowing his cool (professional) mask to slip back in place.

(He could have been doing it for Jack.)

Reid glances over. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

He allows the barest hint of a grin to show. “I could have taken a photo, but I didn’t.”

On Monday morning, Reid finds a picture of a giraffe on his desk. He wonders where the sense of humour came from.

* * *

“Hey, uh, Hotch?”

He shifts awkwardly on the spot as Hotch glances up.

“Reid, come in. What can I do for you?”

“I need to talk to Kyle Lawrence,” he blurts out.

Hotch’s face doesn’t give anything away, but Reid swears he looks discreetly out to the bullpen where Emily and Morgan are.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Reid,” he says carefully.

“Why?” He fires back. “Hotch, look, I’m perfectly fine and I’ve done all the paperwork and I’ve gone through victimology with JJ and Morgan. I just need to ask him about Tracy Donnelly and the high school.”

“Reid, you know we don’t have anything on him. At the moment, it’s all circumstantial, so I don’t want anyone stirring something up at that compound and letting all hell break loose.” He sighs. “I covered for you five years ago, and I trust that you can sort it now as well, but I cannot let you talk to him if you’re still under the influence of Dilaudid.”

He pauses to take a breath. “What did you want to ask? It’s not too far; I can head over there with Prentiss and ask for you.”

His eyes shine brightly. “Yeah? Why would a girl like Tracy Donnelly –  brought up with the cult’s mentality, sweet and naïve, told not to talk to anyone on the outside – suddenly decide to befriend him? You work it out, Hotch,” he finishes brusquely, slamming the door behind him.

He stalks back over to the desk, ignoring Morgan’s question, and he pretends not to notice when Hotch gestures to Emily and they walk out the glass doors.

“Okay, kid, want to tell me what that was about?”

He shakes his head and stares at his sheet, willing his thoughts to organise.

Half an hour later, his head snaps up. “Guys, I think I’ve got it – it’s his mother we should be looking at.”

“Okay, what do you mean?”

He can feel the excitement building and bubbling over. “Tracy wouldn’t just go and _ask_ him. But his mom…” He trails off and quickly shoves his things in his bag. “Guys, I’m going to go over there now.”

“Reid, just give Hotch a call – ”

“No, it’s faster if I just go.”

“Reid – ”

“I’ll call you later,” he tosses over his shoulder as he sprints out.

* * *

She sardonically thinks that one could play a drinking game with her career – one sip for every time she gets used as bait; a shot for every time she gets beat up; two for being hit with any vehicle; three for being held hostage; down the whole bottle if she gets shot and/or codes in an ambulance.

She’d be fairly well drunk.

So when Kyle Lawrence starts gesticulating wildly and manages to lunge and grab her, she mentally lets loose a string of curses in Italian, stands still with the gun pressed deep against her back, and hopes that Hotch and Reid can calm him down.

(Goddammit, she hopes it’s just a single shot this time.)

* * *

“So you left the office and went to the compound, against Agent Hotchner’s orders?”

“Yes.”

Doctor Petersen sets his pen down and leans back, waiting.

“I knew it. I was right,” he cracks. “I needed to prove it.”

“Prove it to whom?”

“Emily. Hotch. Myself.”

He can’t stop the tears from leaking out.

* * *

In a valid experiment, only one variable can be changed. He is a scientist; he knows this.

(Pick one, Spencer – you, or Dilaudid?)

* * *

_Wasn’t he here years ago? No, stop. Think. Date – December 12, 2011. Time – 11:40am. Location – La Plata County, Colorado. Right?_

His eyes are still too bright, and his head is this wonderful cloud of whizzing ideas and formulae and images and words and confidence.

And so he speaks.

“…Mr. Lawrence – Kyle – you don’t have to do this, okay? We can sit down, have a chat inside. You don’t have to see your mother again.”

“Leave her out of this!”

“We know that she forced Tracy Donnelly to find you and bring you here. You were doing okay on your own, and they lured you in…”

She’s staring straight at him, hope and trust and fear and warmth in her eyes, and all he can see is _i can take it_ , and he doesn’t understand, just repeats whywhywhywhywhywhywhy –

“…Kyle, I understand. They lied to you, she lied to you – ”

“ – They _taught_ me! They found me!”

“No, Kyle, you were lost and Tracy saw that too and then they _lied_ to you – ”

“ – Shut up! Just – just shut up! You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, okay?”

“Mr. Cyrus – no, Ben – no sorry, I mean Kyle – everyone lies and it hurts, and maybe you wish you could hurt them back for every time, but – ”

.

.

.

Bang

.

.

 – and falling twisting landing dancing like a marionette really is beautiful – it’s too bright i can’t see them where did they go – why is hotch’s face so white – _shit there’s too much red_ – no, apply pressure here – hotch, help me, please please please – call 911 – come on emily – oh god he heard _and_ watched this time – okay we can take off her coat (fuck, why did she have to wear a white one) – open your eyes look at hotch squeeze his hand – where’s kyle – where’s the fucking ambulance – listen to me please – NO please emily emily emily emilyemilyemily – 

* * *

such a lonely little boy. lonely then and lonelier now.

oh doctor, so lonely, so very very alone.

* * *

“And were you right?”

“Yes,” he whispers. “But why the fuck does that matter? I’m an addict, I couldn’t – _didn’t_ – think. I talked, and Emily’s dead.”

 


	4. four.

It’s Morgan who reaches Hotch first.

( _oh god, not again_ )

It’s Morgan who sees him cradle a lifeless body, clutch her close to his chest, whispering words over and over and over and over – meaningless because no one can hear, will ever hear – tears running familiar tracks down his face, pleads and pleads and pleads and doesn’t ever let go.

( _fuck fuck fuck, not again_ )

He pulls the SUV up to the entrance of the compound, flings the door open, and it’s a mess – paramedics and local police and people from the compound and there’s people crying and white noise and he’s unconsciously shoving people away from the scene. And he doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to understand, sees the paramedics and wants to yell at them just standing there to _do their fucking job_ , but they’ve already stepped back, and Reid is dazedly standing, phone clutched tight, and shit, _Emily_ –

( _not again, blood everywhere, no no no no no Emily, no_ )

JJ jumps from the SUV, face white and eyes red, she shakily cuffs Kyle Lawrence and turns him over.  She walks over to Reid, steers him away, hugs him tight, strokes his hair, and holds his shaking body.

“…JJ, it’s all my fault, it’s all my fault, I did this, oh god JJ, it’s all my fault it’s all my fault…”

Morgan glances over at her and she shakes her head minutely, indicating that he should go to Hotch. ( _this is a goddamn mess_ )

And he hesitates. And he can’t move.

Can’t interrupt.

Doesn’t want to interrupt. Wants to tell everyone (gawking or not) to move away, get as far away as possible.

_Just leave them alone_ , he yells silently, tears starting to blur his vision. _Give them space, leave them_ …

He thinks hours must have passed because everyone seems to have left, except his team and the paramedics, and somehow he’s managed to call Rossi, because he’s here and trying to pry her body from their prone supervisor. There are tears sliding down his face too, ancient tears blended with new tears, and it’s only now that he realises how old they all really are.

(but oh, how _young_ we try to be – doesn’t matter, never matters anyway – we are born dying, derek morgan)

It’s only when Rossi finally manages to pull him away that he walks towards his fallen friend. And all he can do is place a hand on Hotch’s shoulder, bend down to smooth the hair off Emily’s face, bow his head and cry.

(It’s not fair.

He’s seen the life pour out of Emily Prentiss too many times.)

* * *

Somehow, JJ ends up driving all of them, with the exception of Hotch and Rossi, back to her place. Given how much her hands have been shaking, she’s surprised she’s managed to deliver them all in one piece. Unbidden, _compartmentalisation_ floats to the front of her mind, and she viciously pushes that thought away, unlocks her door and sags into Will’s arms.

The rest of her team traipse in slowly, until Garcia makes a sudden and quick beeline for Henry sitting blissfully on the floor. He’s playing with his toy trucks, and she sits, her vibrant splashes of colour not incongruous with the brightly coloured plastic surrounding her. She reaches out and fingers a fire engine, wetness springing to her eyes as she remembers Emily unravelling an intricate story to Henry –  something about an octopus, Dan the fireman, Elmo, and the knights of the round table – eyes dancing and laughter-filled…

And before she can reach for the tissues once again, she feels Henry’s small, warm body collapse against hers, tiny arms wrapping around her neck and his hands clumsily patting her back. She sobs and hugs back, looks up, and gestures for Reid to join them.

He’s standing, stricken, still at the door, unable to do anything but observe the scene around him. Garcia implores him through the thick lenses of her glasses, still clutching Henry tight. And Henry turns and looks straight at him – _his godson_ – curious and with half-understanding eyes, and he can’t –

Giving Garcia a small apologetic (pleading) shake of the head, he slips out, the _need_ coursing through him, and he walks and walks and walks, desperate to get it out, by sheer will if necessary. And he walks and walks some more, finds himself outside the door of his own apartment. He opens it with trembling hands, energy spent, curls into a ball, fingers clawing into the carpet for purchase, and cries.

.

(Spencer Reid has a calendar in his head.

He marks green for the days where he lies (the big ones, of course; he gave up on the small ones ages ago), blue for the days when he snaps at someone on his team, orange for the days when he snaps at himself, yellow for the days when he feels a pounding headache dancing across his skull, purple for the days when he’s hugged by his team, pink for the days when he calls his mom (that marker remains largely untouched on his imaginary desk), brown for the days that he cries himself to sleep, red for the days where his mirror is broken—not fixed—

Spencer Reid’s calendar is white – _so many colours, can’t keep track_ – and he can’t stop himself from conducting the cacophonous symphony in his head.)

* * *

He hears but he doesn’t register the keys sliding into the lock. There’s a faint buzzing in his ear, and he thinks maybe it’s New York again and then he violently smashes smashes smashes his fist against the solid wall.

A pair of arms pulls him away, and he collapses doubled over and wheezing.

“Aaron. Do you want me to call Jessica and tell her to bring Jack over?” Rossi peers down at him, a hand solidly resting on his back.

He shakes his head, vomit threatening to spill, and he gasps and gulps for air, this inhuman sound pouring out, _keening_ , filling the room. He staggers over to his cabinet and reaches for the nearest bottle, cold hands grasping the cool glass.

“No, I just… just leave me alone,” he says. “Please.”

Rossi hands him the tumbler sitting on the counter. “What happened, Aaron?”

His hands shake as he pours, throws it back, slams the glass down.

“Everybody dies,” he hisses. “Everybody _fucking dies_. I can’t – I can’t do anything to save anyone. Kate, Haley, Emily. And god, I can’t even help Reid.”

“Reid?”

“He’s an addict. And I didn’t listen to him, didn’t listen to Emily, I should have _helped_ him,” he finishes in a low voice, barely audible. “I knew, and I should have--”

“Aaron, it’s not your--”

He laughs harshly, the sound scraping through his vocal cords. “No, it is. This time, it really is. If you have a train with a mechanical issue, you don’t let it keep going and take passengers, because that’s a bad idea and there’s going to be a fucking train wreck.”

“It’s not your fault,” Rossi repeats firmly.

“I’m his fucking _supervisor_ ,” he roars, tears streaming, eyes manic. “I knew! I fucking knew! And I could have done _something_.”

He tightens his hand against the glass, knuckles white, squeezes and feels the glorious pressure build up around his fingers. And he pushes himself to keep squeezing, rage and anger and anger and despair curling around and around ( _pressure still building_ ) and he hears a sharp crack this time ( _shit, not unlike earlier_ ) and senses a million shards prickling his palm, the pads of his fingers, running deep crimson rivulets following the veins of his arm—

He cradles his left hand in his right, blindly looking down and allowing Rossi to lead him to the kitchen sink ( _averts his eyes; he tries so so hard not to look at the coffee mug stained with faint pink lipstick_ ). Taking the proffered tweezers, he turns the tap on and lets the clear water run, swallows his hiss and simply

_stands_

_there_

_and stares,_

_gasps,_

_breathes,_

(And he picks out every piece, mechanical, respectfully lays each shard and crystal down –

sparkling

– and staring at them through his tears and the streaming moonlight, he swears he can see stars mockingly wink.)


	5. five. (or, choose your own adventure. sort of.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a reminder -- in this story, December 12th 2011 is when all hell breaks loose (see [chapter 3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2224836/chapters/5224247))

**i.**

_December 11, 2011._

It’s five in the afternoon. Emily absently spins around in her chair, pen tapping against the stack of paper on her lap. She’s humming the first few bars of Darth Vader’s theme on repeat under her breath and skim reading through consults and requests from various police departments along the East Coast, occupying herself while their current case is on hold.

Out of the corner of her eye, she periodically scans the room (old habits die hard) – Morgan with his headphones, brow furrowed and nodding along to his undoubtedly hip music; Reid chewing the end of his pen, rubbing his bloodshot eyes; Garcia animatedly talking to JJ at her desk, the latter nodding every so often in understanding; Rossi in his office on his phone (Strauss, she guesses with a smirk); Hotch highlighting pages upon pages in front of him, periodically looking at the framed picture of Jack.

And she smiles – because this is _right_ , because they are a smooth and efficient team, because she can say that they are resilient without having to lie through her teeth.

(and she will _never let go_ , she vows – tomorrow, she will go to the gym and spar with Morgan over the beats of heavy bass; she will have a discussion with Reid about all things to do with Russian literature; she will go out for lunch with Garcia and JJ at that pricey new café just around the corner and they will chat for longer than they have since before; she will drop in on Rossi in his office in the late afternoon, and they will converse in Italian because it is beautiful and because they can; she might even walk past Strauss’ office and give her a tight smile; she will drag Hotch out of his office once everyone has left for the night and drive to his home (separately, of course; although, really, she doesn’t think they’re fooling anyone) and they will have dinner and play a game with Jack and she will fall asleep on his couch with her head securely nestled against his shoulder, steady breaths mingling together in the peaceful night – and _god, she will not let go again_ )

The rustling of paper catches her attention, and she looks up curiously at Spencer.

“We’ve missed you,” Reid says quietly enough that only she can hear him from across his desk.

The admission startles her (and judging from the look on his face, him as well); not the sentiment itself, but the sheer directness and simplicity coming from his tired defeated melancholic mind.

“Missed you too,” she whispers back, eyes twinkling and locked onto his.

......

**ii.**

_December 11, 2011._

It’s five in the afternoon. Emily absently spins around in her chair, pen tapping against the stack of paper on her lap. She’s humming the first few bars of Darth Vader’s theme on repeat under her breath and skim reading through consults and requests from various police departments along the East Coast, occupying herself while their current case is on hold.

It’s only her, Reid, and Morgan left in the bullpen. She hears Morgan sigh and tap his foot restlessly against the desk, and she smiles and starts to hum louder.

“Prentiss.”

She snaps her head up. “Yeah?”

“ _Star Wars_.” Morgan raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Morgan, do _not_ knock the genius and brilliance that is _Star Wars_ ,” she mock glares at him.

“I wasn’t—I mean, I’m sure it’s great, but you’re humming the damn thing on repeat and… it’s nerdy?”

“ _Star Wars_ is mainstream to the point where I don’t think it’s counted as nerd fodder anymore. How have you _not_ seen it? Besides, you can’t mock me as a nerd; you read Vonnegut,” she adds loftily, catching Spencer’s eye and nodding at him to back her up. “Reid?”

“Umm, Emily’s right,” he blinks. “Every kid watches _Star Wars_ ; it’s a classic.”

“Not the latest three,” Emily mutters.

Reid half-smiles. “True.”

“Fine,” Morgan says. “But Vonnegut is _not_ nerdy. His works were a philosophical commentary on the state of the world, using science fiction to get his message across.”

“… And that’s not…?”

“No, it’s classic literature satirising all aspects of society. Vonnegut even hated the idea that his works could be classified as science fiction.”

“Aww, look at you, arguing passionately and everything. The true essence of a nerd,” she smirks triumphantly. “Welcome to the club, you’re one of us now.”

Morgan huffs a laugh. “Okay, Prentiss. Whatever you say.”

“Precisely,” she nods. “Now, you’re joining us tonight, and we’re gonna marathon all the Marvel movies. I need to catch up before _Avengers_ comes out next year.”

“Us?”

She nods emphatically. “You, me, Reid. My place, once I wrap this one up,” she says, waving the file currently in her hand. “I’ll make something.”

“I’m not sure that’s incentive,” Morgan says with a grin.

“Old joke, Morgan. Get a new one,” she snaps back. “Reid?”

He hastily looks at her, “Uh, yeah, sure.”

“Lovely,” she drawls, capping her pen and swivelling around. “We can take photos of Morgan and give them to Garcia. God knows she needs more blackmail material.”

“Hang on, Garcia’s not coming?”

“She’s going over to JJ and Will’s tonight.”

“And Hotch?” He dares to ask, his own smirk unfurling from the corner of his mouth.

Reid chokes out a sudden laugh at the question. And out of the corner of his eye, he sees her giving the finger to Morgan, but he also doesn’t miss the smile that gradually spreads across her face.

......

**iii.**

_December 11, 2011._

It’s five in the afternoon. Emily absently spins around in her chair, pen tapping against the stack of paper on her lap. She’s humming the first few bars of Darth Vader’s theme on repeat under her breath and skim reading through consults and requests from various police departments along the East Coast, occupying herself while their current case is on hold.

She hears a shuffling sound above her, and cranes her head to see Strauss peering strangely at her from the catwalk.

“Ma’am? Can I help you?”

Strauss’ eyes bore into hers. “Agent Prentiss. Come with me for a moment; I want to speak with you.”

Holding the stare for a moment longer, she nods, before climbing the stairs up to the catwalk. She flicks a glance over at Hotch’s office and shakes her head minutely, mouths _I’ve got this_. Closing Strauss’ door behind her, she stands resolute.

“Ma’am. How can I help?” She repeats herself, clearer than before.

Strauss wastes no time, eyes drilling holes into hers again, now with added cold appraisal. “What is the nature of your relationship with Agent Hotchner?”

Inwardly sighing, she lifts her chin and cocks her head slightly. “Agent Hotchner is the Unit Chief of the BAU. I am an agent within said unit. Ergo, he’s my boss.”

Strauss bristles. “You and I both know—”

“—Well, in that case, you really don’t need me here, do you?” Emily says, trying to suppress her impatience. “What you and I _both_ know is that I’ll say whatever I believe is right, and you’ll say whatever you believe is right, and we’ll both walk away from this office knowing exactly what we knew before this conversation started.”

“Agent Prentiss, I have an entire Section to run, and—”

“—Yes, yes you do,” Emily interrupts again, albeit much more gently. “And it’s a hard job. But there are people that make it easier,” she says, eyes lingering on Hotch’s and Rossi’s office, before dragging her attention back to Strauss. She raises her eyebrows meaningfully.

“And honestly, I don’t know if you’re okay with these situations. But, politics aside, I _do_ know you understand. So, thank you,” Emily adds, voice soft but distinct. “Will that be all?”

At Strauss’ muted and distracted nod, she stands and turns without looking back, closing the door quietly behind her. On her way back to her desk, she walks past his office, gives him a quick nod, and gets a smile of reassurance in return.

......

**iv.**

_December 11, 2011._

It’s five in the afternoon. Emily absently spins around in her chair, pen tapping against the stack of paper on her lap. She’s humming the first few bars of Darth Vader’s theme on repeat under her breath and skim reading through consults and requests from various police departments along the East Coast, occupying herself while their current case is on hold.

She feels a tap on her left shoulder, and she turns to see JJ and Garcia standing there, carefully regarding her.

“Right, we’ve come to get you out of here,” Garcia demands, forcibly pulling her out of her chair.

“Wait, hang on, let me just—” Emily splutters as she gathers up the files on her lap and places them as neatly as possible on her desk.

“Forget those icky gruesome cases, we need a night off, and _you’re_ coming with us.”

Emily turns pleading eyes to JJ, who simply shrugs and smirks. “Have you _tried_ arguing with her?”

“Fair point,” she agrees. “Okay, what’s the plan?”

Garcia’s eyes dance behind her colourful frames. “Bar. Dancing. Simple.”

“We haven’t done this in ages,” JJ explains. “Not since, well, yeah…”

Emily nods once, standing up and stretching. “Right. Now that you mention it, I’m _really_ in the mood for a drink.”

“And in the mood to terrify hapless men who hit on us?” JJ smirks again, much to Garcia’s delight.

“God, I will never _not_ be in the mood for that,” Emily sighs. “We should turn it into a new drinking game.”

“See Em, this is why we need you here,” Garcia beams. “Awesome kick-ass superhero crime fighting aside.”

Emily rolls her eyes, but the side of her mouth tilts up. She darts a quick glance up to his office and inclines her head slightly towards the two blondes. At his brief smile and nod, she hoists her bag on her shoulder and nudges Garcia. “Time to get smashed,” she says dryly.

She hears a soft snort, and she turns around, letting JJ and Garcia in front of her.

“Have fun,” Reid says abruptly, pen scratching against his page.

Emily turns back to see him already bent over the case on his desk, but she stops. “Yeah,” she says, watching him lift his head and offer a tentative smile. “We will.”

......

**v.**

_December 11, 2011._

It’s five in the afternoon. Emily absently spins around in her chair, pen tapping against the stack of paper on her lap. She’s humming the first few bars of Darth Vader’s theme on repeat under her breath and skim reading through consults and requests from various police departments along the East Coast, occupying herself while their current case is on hold.

A combination of boredom, tension, and restlessness courses through her, and she abruptly throws her pen down, grabs her gun and stalks off towards the elevator. She looks back behind her, relieved that no one seems surprised or concerned or feels the urgent need to follow her to make sure she doesn’t go on another suicide mission.

She slides into the elevator and heads for the firing range. It’s not particularly quiet; she spots a few agents in their stalls and gives them polite nods, before finding an empty space towards the end.

She loses track of time as she fires round after round after round at the paper target, neatly clustered shots, and she most definitely doesn’t superimpose anyone’s face onto the target. Sound disappears as her focus narrows, and it’s only when she takes off the mufflers that she notices the extra presence behind her.

“Not bad at all,” a voice intones. “Focused, clean, precise.”

“Stop analysing me, Rossi,” she retorts, carefully setting down her gun. “Why are you here?”

“Why are _you_ here?” He returns, smug smile playing around his mouth.

“Got bored,” she says tersely. “Fucking paperwork.”

“They’re just consults. Take the downtime while you can.”

She sighs, starting to pack away her weapon of choice. “Yeah, I know.”

“It leaves you with too much time to think.”

Emily turns around to face him. “God, I hate working with profilers sometimes.”

“We’re paid to notice things and overanalyse them,” he quips before adding more seriously, “How are you doing?”

“I’m here,” she replies after a moment, shrugging. “It’s not like we can pretend that those seven months never happened. I certainly can’t. But I’m tired of living under a fucking microscope.”

“We care,” Rossi says simply, an abbreviated repeat of what she had said to him in Indianapolis almost an eternity ago. “How could we not? When you walked out an hour ago, almost everyone tried _not_ to look up.”

She falls silent as she starts walking away, back towards the elevator and up to the BAU offices. She counts their footsteps as they walk; the soothing _clicks_ forming a soundtrack to her tumultuous thoughts. And they walk and walk ( _no talking_ ) before stopping short at the glass doors.

“Almost everyone?”

“Reid looked,” he says, then pauses, trying to gauge her reaction. “Hotch didn’t.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “How did you know that he didn’t? You can’t see him from your office.”

He stares at her again. “Okay, you’re right,” he concedes, “I didn’t see him. But when I walked past, he wasn’t fazed that you weren’t at your desk.”

“So?”

“Trust and understanding,” he says. “Trust that you’re not going to run away. Understanding because he’s been there before. You were there two years ago; you of all people would know.”

“Yeah,” she whispers, still standing outside.

“You didn’t give up then, and he’s not going to now,” he adds reassuringly.

She absently picks at her nails, before stepping forward and embracing him in a quick, impulsive hug.

“I know,” she whispers again, into his ear. “I know.”

He relinquishes his hold on her, eyes smiling warmly at her. “You’re in it together, kiddo,” he says, finally opening the door for both of them.

......

**vi.**

_December 11, 2011._

It’s five in the afternoon. Emily absently spins around in her chair, pen tapping against the stack of paper on her lap. She’s humming the first few bars of Darth Vader’s theme on repeat under her breath and skim reading through consults and requests from various police departments along the East Coast, occupying herself while their current case is on hold.

She’s the last one left in the bullpen; Hotch having told everyone to rest up for tomorrow. She’s not stupid nor embarrassed enough to leave and double back; instead, merely mumbles a reply to JJ’s raised eyebrows and unspoken question.

The clock on her desk ticks loudly in the comfortable silence, and she exhales, studying his profile through the blinds. She flicks off the light on her desk, plunging the bullpen into near darkness. She sees his head jerk up at the sudden dimness, and smiling, she makes her way up to his office.

“Distracted?”

He places his pen down and rubs his eyes tiredly. “I fucking hate cults.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more,” she says, lips curling into a grim smile. “Colorado was enough for me.”

His eyes darken considerably. “Don’t remind me,” he says, clipped.

“Yeah,” she winces, more on his behalf than for her own sake. “Sorry.”

He softens. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

She nods, waiting. He rubs his eyes again, and the bridge of his nose. “This case, other cases, Strauss breathing down my neck, how to help Reid... I’m just—I just want a fucking break,” he admits to her. “I want to go somewhere else, with you and Jack, and forget about this…” _Forget about the last seven or so months_ …

Without a hint of hesitation, she walks over to his desk and reaches for his hand. “Look, I’m sure tomorrow will work out fine. We’ll find something substantial to pin down Kyle Lawrence, and that’ll be it. Nothing complicated. God knows we’ve done this before.”

“Let’s hope so,” he replies, starting to gather and tidy up some of the files on his desk. “We need a win.”

“Yes, we do,” she says, gently tugging him out of his chair. “Come on, let’s go, before JJ or Rossi come back claiming they’ve ‘accidentally’ left their keys or whatever behind.”

He gives her a pained look. “I don’t expect much from Rossi, but JJ?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.”

“I don’t want to know,” he says, standing and turning off the light. She walks out the door with him following close behind.

“You really don’t,” she says, rueful. “So, where would we go?”

“I’m sorry?” He asks, still distracted by the piece of information about JJ and Rossi. _Although_ , he thinks, _you’ve had that sneaking suspicion for a while, haven’t you?_

“You, me, Jack,” she enunciates slowly. “Where would we go?”

He stares at her, with a look of utter wonder and astonishment. “I—”

“You meant it, right?”

“Of course, but—”

“—Greece,” she throws out. “Your turn.”

He takes a moment, pushes open the door to lead them to the elevators. “Okay. Australia.”

“Maldives,” she grins playfully, but he sees the slight shadow of fear and sadness in her eyes.

“Japan,” he plays (imagines; visualises; fantasises) next.

“Good, I’ve never been,” she nods. “Denmark. In winter.”

He pauses and exhales as he presses the button. “Not yet,” he says, quiet.

“No, I know,” she says, resigned and soft. “I’m—There’s still— _Fuck, I’m trying_.”

His hand hovers over the small of her back as he ushers them into the elevator. As the door closes, she inches closer to his side, _still not touching_ , and she turns, staring blankly at the wall and the panel of buttons. Neither of them talk as they descend, inches apart, wistful tension still palpable. The doors open to reveal the silent parking lot, and he lets her walk in front again.

They reach her car first, and just as she’s about to climb in, he tenderly places a hand on her arm. “Come over tonight?”

She flashes him a brief smile. “Yeah. I just need to grab a few things from my place first.”

He nods, not releasing his hand. Instead, he moves forward, wraps his arms around her and rests his chin on her head. “After this,” he murmurs, only for her. “After this, after Christmas. New year.”

She nods once ( _certain_ ), and he steps back, watching the hopeful expression spread, feeling a longing ache curl from deep inside.

“Sure,” she says, sparkling. “I’ll hold you to that.”

* * *

This is physics: In another universe – in _many_ other universes – Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss live happily ever after.

(He supposes that he does too.)

Spencer Reid tosses and turns, lets his overly-analytical and imaginative mind run wild. He will think of these six possibilities, and yet remember that only one was real.

He knows that some stories are majestic. Some stories are sad. Some stories are beautiful. Some stories are true.

And some stories… well, they’re just stories in the end.


	6. six.

This time, they cremate her.

( _tangentially, it reminds him of the second law of thermodynamics – in which things go towards chaos, order to disorder, a composite being to dust,_ like when humpty dumpty fell and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put him back together again, and fuck, nursery rhymes are lies lies lies _– and he marvels at how a second can change a person into nothing but a pile of ashes and half-remembered memories—_

and somewhere deep in the back of his mind, relief washes over him—

—he’s not sure he would’ve been able to carry the coffin without buckling under the weight.)

* * *

He tells himself to lift his head a little higher, to move so that he doesn’t resemble an uncoordinated giraffe, to meet her in the eyes as he should greet any stranger, let alone the Ambassador. It’s difficult, and every effort feels like lead, but he manages to get out a few coherent words, and tries to look away from the cold expression on her face.

“Ma’am.” His voice is hoarse and he tries for more, but the words get stuck in his throat. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

She looks strangely, deeply at him. “You must be Spencer.”

“That’s me, yes. How—?”

“My daughter doesn’t—” There is a minute shift in the Ambassador’s eyes, a tiny falter, “—didn’t say much about her team. Or her friends, for that matter. She always said just enough, but I’ve always known. You… remind me of her,” she finishes rather uncomfortably.

“Emily.”

“Excuse me?”

“ _Your daughter_. We’re standing at her goddamn headstone, her name is _Emily_.”

( _is, was; he’s been wondering over and over for the last few days what the proper verb should be_ )

A flash of anger passes over her face. “You’d do well to remember—”

“—Ma’am, there isn’t really anything you can say that won’t make me more guilty or ashamed or _small_ ,” he half-snarls. “But please, _Emily_ deserved more.”

“Of course she did, Agent Reid—”

“—‘Doctor’, actually.”

“— _Doctor_ Reid,” she says, nostrils flaring. After a moment, her eyes soften, and for the first time, he can see glimpses of Emily hidden behind the Ambassador’s haughty demeanour. “Anger, guilt, and resentment breeds, Doctor. Take care of yourself.”

He blinks at the change, and after she gives him a solid nod and walks away with her security detail, he ducks his head again to face the overwhelmingly green grass. He stares and stares, before another voice cuts in.

“She’s intimidating, isn’t she?”

He shuffles his feet, gathers himself, before looking up to meet Hotch’s eyes. “There are worse things to fear,” he says dully.

Hotch nods without replying. Reid looks intently at him, sees the sheen of wetness and redness and dryness and tiredness that never seems to go away anymore.

He blurts out suddenly. “Why are you still talking to me? I haven’t seen—since—you should be—”

_mad and angry and empty and confused and hateful and catatonic and hurt and lost and terrified and—_

“I should,” he agrees. “And I am. Every night, I wait in the parking lot, and then I remember. Every fucking night, I go home, and it’s empty.”

Reid swallows and blinks furiously. “Then why—”

“—Do you honestly think that I don’t care enough about you? That I don’t know the guilt and the fear that presses down on you everywhere, all the time? That I don’t feel the same thing _right now_?”

“It’s my fault,” he argues back, the same three words that he’s been saying to himself over and over and over.

“Yes. Maybe. Probably. But don’t you _dare_ think that I don’t give a damn about my team.” His voice lowers to a pained hiss, and his eyes flash with barely restrained tears and anger. “You are as much an agent as any of the others.”

“I’m—” _Is there such a thing as apologising too much?_

“I know, Reid,” he acknowledges quietly, outburst fading away without a trace. “I am too.”

It falls silent after that, save for the rustling of nearby trees, and the hushed whispers from the others on their team. He manages to give them the barest hint of a smile, but has to start desperately swallowing when he sees Henry give him a small fisted wave in return.

He turns back to his supervisor, but determinedly looks at the engraved name of his friend instead. “Hotch. Do you ever… do you ever feel like you want to just… give up?”

He pauses for a moment, looks up to the sky and blinks rapidly, then gives the younger man a sad, sad smile. “Yes. All the time.”

* * *

There is a phantom pain, he feels.

One night, he goes home with her, to her; and the next, he is alone, her possessions randomly strewn across his home, untouched and cutting a perfect mould of where she was.

(Jack cries, and he can’t explain it, not again.

One night here, another night _gone_ , and it’s theoretically simple but he _can’t_.)

* * *

He learns how to solve a Rubik’s cube when he is seven.

( _solve_ being the operative word – he’d argue that memorising a series of steps to fix a pattern doesn’t require much creative input.)

He shows the completed cube to his mother, to his father; and they laugh, they say _you have to do it, prove it, show me_.

His small fingers slide over the plastic squares, almost like a caress. A multitude of colours spin through the air, he feels his heart hammering _faster faster faster_ , it’s not a race (but it is, oh, it is) and he comes to the last layer of the cube ( _almost there, spencer, you can do it_ ), a few flicks, fumbles—

—drops, shatters.

 ( _it’s okay, spencer._

_next time, you can always do it next time._ )

* * *

It’s another sunny day when he sits down in front of the headstone.

He sits cross-legged, awkwardly folding himself into a semi-comfortable position ( _doesn’t let himself get too comfortable_ ), lets his hands trace over her name again.

He clears his throat.

“Hey Emily,” he cracks out. “I, uh, I’m here. Again, I guess. Last time… God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t… Every single night, I can still hear the shot and it doesn’t go away, it won’t ever go away. And some nights I _want_ it to go away, and then I think that it can’t, it shouldn’t. This compartmentalisation thing you kept talking about, well, I don’t think I’m very good at it. That’s another thing, I guess.

“I, um, I’m seeing one of the FBI shrinks. He’s… he’s okay. Mandatory, though. You would have hated that. I don’t mind it as much… well, maybe not the first few times, I didn’t say anything at all. Not like now. It’s helping, I think. I hope, at least. I don’t really have anything else. Everyone on the team was – _is_ – crowding, you would have understood. God, you would have understood, and you wouldn’t have said anything.

“We screwed up. You, me, and Hotch, we all screwed up. Couldn’t tell each other anything, couldn’t trust anyone. Fuck, maybe if you’d just _told_ us before you died the first time. Or if Hotch told us… told _me_ , I guess. Or if I told you both about the Dilaudid. Maybe the second time—maybe that wouldn’t have happened… I, um, I keep thinking about how fucked up we were—we _are_ , I guess. And you know how you wish you could have gone back and changed everything?… It doesn’t work, Em, it doesn’t fucking work, and I’m sorry. Like… um, like, I wish that maybe you could have just dragged me to see someone, you know? But it’s not how it works, I suppose. Nothing ever works right.

“He left as well, you know. Or maybe you don’t. I’m not sure I believe that an afterlife exists. But anyway. He left the team, and he _hugged_ all of us before he walked out. Did you teach him to do that, Emily? Did you teach him to give us a hug, a smile, before going god-knows-where? He—he just left. And no one gets it, except I think I do. Maybe. Maybe, because I’m not sure of anything really. Nothing matters anymore, Em. Like, I don’t even know why I’m talking because you’re fucking _dead_. Properly dead, and Rossi doesn’t even smirk and make jokes anymore.

“So, um, anyway. It’s just Morgan, Rossi, JJ, and Garcia. And I mean, Rossi’s either in his office or Strauss’, and Garcia’s in her room, sometimes with JJ. So it’s _too_ quiet, because it’s just Morgan in the bullpen and he has his headphones on and no-one goes near him. Like, last week, I went to see the shrink and I walked past the glass doors, and I saw but I didn’t go in, so yeah. It’s me, again.

“He _left_ , Emily. Are we selfish? He didn’t even leave when Haley—when Haley died. And I don’t _understand_. Because everyone fucking leaves, Em, everyone _leaves_. And I don’t—I can’t tell whether it’s me this time, or maybe he just can’t—

“—Emily, I don’t _know_ anymore.”

* * *

It is numbing and it is cold, and he sits in his office, surrounded by his books.

He stares at the empty couch a few feet from his desk, just simply stares, waiting waiting waiting—

“—Aaron.”

A small, triumphant smile breaks through. “Emily.”

“Again?”

“Yes,” he replies, without a trace of guilt.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t turn it off.”

“Of course you can. You’re _debating_ with yourself right now.” The Emily on his couch crosses her arms and arches an eyebrow.

“And I’m winning.”

“Listen to yourself, Aaron. If this were any other agent on your team, any other person, you would have argued otherwise.”

He holds the tentative smile, before feeling it crumple. “Why are you right?”

“Because _you_ are,” she reminds him. “It’s not healthy, and you need to talk to someone.”

“If I talk to you, and you offer a differing view, doesn’t that count?”

“God, you’re difficult,” she sighs, standing up and coming around to his desk. He peers up at her, and fully takes her in; her hair is gently curled around her shoulders, and she’s wearing the simple combination of black pants and red silk top that he remembers from that time he came to get her for Milwaukee, eons ago. He stares again ( _eyes of awe_ ), before closing them slowly.

“I’m trying, Em,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut and concentrating. “I’m _fucking_ trying.”

“I know,” she answers softly, bending down and carding imaginary fingers through his hair. “But you also know this has to stop.”

“I just want—”

“—We all want something,” she agrees, voice low and calm. “But that’s never how it works.”

“I want it back,” he continues, unhearing. “I want _you_ back, I want Reid better, I want Jack to smile, I want everything back the way it was before this fucking mess.”

“And half those things are possible. But I’m not some sort of genie.”

His eyes fly open. “I think I need to leave,” he says abruptly.

“Go on,” she encourages.

“No, I mean—”

“—You pick up the pieces, Aaron, you do what has to be done.”

“This—this doesn’t work anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing lasts,” he says, looking at her, imploring her to understand. “All those times when we were working cases, and we sent you in as bait, or when we _knew_ that shit was going to happen and you went in anyway, those times, we’d just sit and we’d have to _wait_ to hear back from you. And even if you returned beaten to a pulp, we called it a win. And I thought—after Doyle, I thought we had you back for good. And you _were_ —”

“—No, I wasn’t, not quite,” she interrupts with a sad smile.

A shadow passes across his face. “Yeah, I know,” he admits. “But that’s the point. You were _back_ , Em, physically back, and I thought _this is it_. We’d get there, slowly, but we’d get there, and it was a _win_. And then—”

He swallows and feels her hand covering his. “And then I died,” she finishes quietly.

“And then you died.”

The words echo around his empty office, in time with the ticking seconds of the watch on his wrist. He slowly extricates his hand from hers.

“I’m sorry—”

“—don’t be—”

“—but it didn’t make a difference,” he says.

She nods in agreement. “And if you can’t see it—”

“—then I have to go.”

“And so do I,” she murmurs. “You can do this. For you, for Jack, for Reid. But not for me, Aaron. That chapter’s over.”

(And there is a moment when he goes absolutely still, processing, his face a mask of pain and raw anguish. And this time, the clock stops ticking; by sheer will, he forces time to stop, his breath caught in his lungs, stagnant—)

“I love you,” he whispers, broken and cracked. He turns his face up, pleading, desperate, tries to commit everything to memory.

“Yeah, I know,” she says gently, smiling one last time before fading.

His head slumps forward, buried in his hands. He presses his fingers to his eyes, feels the moisture coating the skin, presses harder to stem the rush. Minutes pass, and he counts endlessly along with his breathing. A soft knock on his door sounds, and he listens to the steps before lifting his head.

“JJ,” he says, not bothering to hide the tears.

“Hotch. I, um… I thought I heard…”

He dashes a hand against his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Can I help?” She asks, tentatively moving her hand to where Emily’s was not too long ago.

He jerks his hand back. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“No. No, that’s—that’s fine,” she says, somewhat helpless.

“I’m leaving,” he announces quietly.

“I’m sorry?”

“The team. I’m leaving the team,” he clarifies.

She blinks once. “Right.”

“Yes.”

“When did you decide this?”

He flicks his eyes to his wrist. “About half an hour ago.”

“Right,” she repeats, still unsure of what else to say. “For Jack?”

“In part,” he admits. “With Henry, I thought you might…”

“I get it,” she replies softly. “But that can’t be all. I mean, you stayed after Haley died.”

He looks down, thinks, and it clicks into place.

“It’s different this time,” he says, and it is tired, tiring, _he is so so tired_. “We screwed up and this time, it wasn’t the UNSUB, it wasn’t whatever monster of a serial killer. Kate died, and that was a terrorist plot. Haley died, and that was Foyet. But Emily died, and that was because Reid—”

“—It’s not his fault,” she cuts in firmly.

“To everyone, except me and him, it’s not his fault. To me and him, it’s both of our faults, _together_. _We_ did this. It’s been months before December, maybe even before Emily came back from Paris. And you weren’t there, JJ, not at the compound. We _both_ —”

“—Kyle Lawrence pulled the trigger, Hotch, not you or Spence—”

“—You _weren’t there_ ,” he says again, voice rising steadily.

“So tell me what happened, then.”

“No, I can’t,” he shakes his head. “If you really want to know, you can read the reports. And it doesn’t matter anyway—”

“—No, it matters, Hotch. It matters because we’re a goddamn _family_ , and you’re walking out when we need you. So you can at least tell me _why._ ”

He takes a deep breath. “JJ, please. Look at the team. I haven’t been back for a full week yet; Rossi’s practically turned his office into a bar, Garcia only ever wears two different colours at once now, Morgan either spends his time staring at the wall, beating the shit out of a punching bag, or at his desk with his headphones in, and I don’t even know if Reid’s coming back. It’s changed, because it was _different_ this time.”

“So you walk away? Like Gideon walked away?”

“Gideon left because he couldn’t handle it. I’m leaving because I can’t see what difference I make anymore, not here, not in this unit.”

“ _You can’t see what difference you make_? Hotch, it’s all the difference in the world—”

“—No, it _was_ that, but not this time. You’re right, technically it _was_ the UNSUB that pulled the trigger, but everything leading up to that? That was Em, Reid, and me, and all the shit between us.  And I didn’t or couldn’t—I’m not sure anymore—do anything to stop that. So don’t tell me whether you think I’m making a difference, because _I know_ , and it doesn’t matter anymore, not to me.”

She blinks, and he hates that he can see tears starting to form in her eyes. She exhales, taking her time, tries again. “Hotch, you can’t just give up.”

“JJ, agents give up all the time, and for far less. Why should I be any different?”

“Because…”

He gives her a watery smile. “Because I’ve already been through so much? Because I can get through this too? Because I have you and the rest of the team? I’ve done as much as I can for the unit, maybe even too much, and now I’m leaving on my terms.”

She stares at him before finally nodding. “Does anyone know yet?”

_Yes. Emily_. “No, just you.”

“When are you planning to tell the team?”

“I’ll speak to Strauss first. Then I’ll tell them.”

“And are you going to explain why?” She raises her eyebrows, demands and challenges.

“I don’t think—”

“—Give us a little credit, Hotch,” she almost snaps. “This is _not_ just about you. We lost her too, okay? And if we’re losing you as well, the rest of the team deserves to know why.”

He gives her a small nod. “I can’t tell Reid,” he says quietly.

“He needs to know.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “That would be cruel—”

 “—It would be cruel if you _didn’t_ tell him, Hotch—”

“—because it’s putting into words what he _already_ knows, but has yet to consciously realise. What else do you think he’s been thinking about since that day? The option of not knowing, of doubt, is better than the truth.”

She stares at him in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous. So you’ll let the rest of the team know why, except the one person who _needs_ to know? You’ll let him keep guessing—keep double-guessing _himself_ —while the rest of us sit back and watch, when _we_ know what’s happened? And we’re not supposed to say anything? It’s _Reid_ , Hotch, how could you _not_? So maybe you shouldn’t have told me. Maybe I was wrong, maybe you _shouldn’t_ tell the team. Because what you’re doing—what you’re _going_ to do to Reid? That’s not fair, Hotch, and it’s not fair to us.”

He watches as she inhales and exhales deeply, as she clenches and unclenches her fists by her side. Blinking a few times, he lets his gaze wander over to the far wall, almost unseeing.

“I still can’t tell him,” he cracks out. “Unless he asks, I can’t tell him.”

“Fine. Then I don’t know either,” she says after a pause.

“What do I do, then? What do I say?”

“Tell them another truth.” The answer slips from her far, far too easily.

He nods slowly, gratitude forming in his eyes. “And what about you?”

She gives him a tired shrug and her mouth twists sardonically. “Well, what’s another secret between us, Hotch?”

* * *

Henry is a spoiled kid.

_Questions demand answers_.

Henry’s insisted on showing him his new room, complete with glow-in-the-dark stars and planets stuck to the ceiling. Flicking off the lights and drawing the curtains closed, he lies down on the soft carpet and pats the spot next to him. With barely a hint of a tremor, he points out the planets, names them quietly for Henry.

Before long, he feels a tug on his trouser leg, sees the wide blue eyes ( _curious, and he can’t fault him for that_ ). “Why are you a doctor?”

“What?”

“Uncle Dave called you a doctor. He calls mommy an agent. Why are you a doctor?”

“I…” He swallows and gives him a small smile. “Doctors are cool.”

“They fix people,” Henry grins toothily in agreement.

“Yeah, some do. And some think about things, discover new ideas,” he says. “Some know things.”

“You know things. You know _a lot_ of things.”

Reid semi-laughs. “Hey Henry? Want to hear a secret?”

The boy moves closer, puts his ear exaggeratingly close to Reid. “Yeah?”

“Sometimes, we don’t always know things. Sometimes, you might be smarter than me or your parents or any of the people your mom works with.”

“Really?” His face lights up with delight.

“Yeah,” Reid answers, swallowing. “Sometimes we think too much, and we’re actually wrong about a lot of things. It’s why we need you around.”

Henry nods seriously and ducks his head. Placing his hand on his arm, he whispers. “It’s okay, Doctor Spencer. I’m here right now.”

* * *

“What do I do now?”

“What do you want to do?”

“Stop answering my question with another question,” he snaps.

Doctor Petersen peers at him over the rim of his glasses, and sighs. “You are not a child, Doctor Reid. You have options, and you have a brain and a sizeable intellect. You can figure this out for yourself.”

“I can’t—I haven’t been—”

“It’s April now, Doctor Reid. The inquiry’s almost over, and I have the paperwork to clear you to go back. You’ll continue to see me, but you can go back to the BAU now. It’s up to you.”

He focuses on the oil painting above the desk. “Where’s Hotch?”

Petersen considers him for a moment. “Agent Hotchner has decided to step down from the BAU. He’s now teaching at the Academy.”

He whips his head back, eyes widening. “Why?”

“I suggest you ask him yourself.”

He goes quiet, trying to process the prospect of facing his team and his former supervisor.

Doctor Petersen takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes tiredly. “For what it’s worth, Spencer, I think you should go back. You have the closest thing to a family there, and more importantly, you have a _purpose_ there. They need you as much as you need them.”

“I’m not that person, I’ve never been that person,” he shakes his head. “I’m not as physically capable, I’m not the best marksman, I don’t speak seven or however many languages, everyone is trained as a behavioural analyst, and they can use a computer to find any statistic they need. I joined the BAU because that’s what I did.”

“You are underest—”

“—It’s _my_ fault that Emily is dead, and Hotch left the team. _Now_ tell me that they still need me.”

“You are _not_ a team of superheroes, no matter what your technical analyst says. And it is precisely because of this that you have a unique place on your team. The ability to empathise, Doctor Reid, to be the one who can take a step back and understand and _know_ firsthand that the job requires much more than what is learnt at the Academy— _that_ is a quality that cannot be overlooked. I’ve read your file, Spencer, and aside from the late Agent Prentiss, no one on the current BAU roster has had close to the amount of… shall we say, traumatic experiences as you have had on the job. And it is most certainly _not_ a competition, but I would consider it a testament to your character that you are still here after almost a decade since you started with this unit.”

“That’s not releva—”

“—As to the death of Agent Prentiss,” Petersen continues, voice ringing sharper than ever, “whether or not your words led to the UNSUB firing the weapon, well, that will never be resolved by any official proceedings. There are three accounts that can be heard, and only two that will matter: yours and Agent Hotchner’s. You will not receive an official answer that will punish or absolve you. The most the FBI can do is to prevent this from happening again.”

He turns his face away, fingers kneading the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think I can see them again,” he says, almost inaudible. “And if I were them, I’m not sure I’d want to.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t need to _know_ it. I said, _if I were them_ ,” he fires back.

“On the contrary. You _do_ need to know it, Spencer. I wouldn’t underestimate the members of your team; give them more credit than that. And answer me this – if you were to ask any of them to name the one person responsible for the death of Agent Prentiss, who would they say?”

“That’s too simplistic.”

“But it matters. To them and to you,” Petersen says calmly. “Or, if you were to ask them for help with _absolutely anything at all_ , what would they say? You’ve worked with them for nearly ten years. It can’t have been for nothing.”

“So I just… go back? I can’t—it’s different— _ten years_ , god. Do you even know how long it’ll—”

“Or not. A decade and a _strong_ team of agents with integrity. You _do not bail_ , not with those reasons.”

“And if I _need_ something different?” There’s a spark in his eye. “If I can move somewhere else, do something different, something better than staying?”

Petersen eyes him, his slightly straighter, more determined, no less awkward figure. “Then by all means. I won’t discourage you otherwise,” he nods slowly. “But resilience is not a sign of weakness, Spencer, quite the opposite. I think you should remember that.”

* * *

The leaves crunch underfoot – like the click of fingers, like dry bones snapping – the beauty and curse of fall giving him away. The figure in the distance grows larger as he approaches, stiffened stance relaxing slightly. He exhales as his feet crunches his way forward.

“Reid.”

“Hotch.”

“You came.”

“Of course. You left.”

Hotch flicks him a glance. “I had to.”

“Yeah.”

There is a silence that hangs like the leaves of a tree in the heat of summer hang – still and tense and burning and with nowhere to go except _fall_. They both close their eyes ( _it feels right_ ), bow their heads ( _like a child at church, waiting for something to happen_ ), and breathe ( _like only the living know how_ ).

“How’ve you been?”

Reid barks a laugh. “Don’t.”

“I don’t have a right to ask?” He raises his eyebrows sardonically.

“You do,” he replies. “But you shouldn’t care.”

“It’s been months since I last saw you. Don’t tell me whether I should or shouldn’t care. I told you months ago, in this very same spot – you are no less a member of my team as any of the others.”

“It’s not your team anymore, Hotch,” he says quietly.

His eyes widen fractionally, sudden pain flitting across his face. There’s a brief moment where Reid wonders whether he’s gone too far, before he can see the blinds shutter closed in his former supervisor’s eyes.

“No, you’re right.”

“That happens sometimes,” he says, trying for levity, unable to hold a weak smile.

“More often than not,” Hotch acknowledges with a tilt of his head.

“Doesn’t feel like it. A long time ago, maybe.”

His feet kick against the bed of leaves, and he imagines what it would be like to _play_ – no cares in the world, no one to look after, no one to keep him accountable, mistakes made to be forgotten, _build a tower knock it over start again_.

“I don’t hate you.”

The sudden confession from the older man renders him momentarily speechless. “You should.”

“Again, don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do or think. I don’t hate you,” he repeats. “You need to hear that.”

“Hearing and understanding are two different things, Hotch,” he says with a broken smile. “I mean, the number of times Morgan or Emily or I _heard_ you and still did our own thing…”

“It’s up to you to understand,” Hotch says, staring him dead in the eye. “But I can’t walk away without you hearing that.”

“What, so this is to make you feel better?”

“Yes and no,” he admits. “But are you so opposed to the idea that you might not be hated or blamed?”

“Only if it’s false.”

“And who decides that?”

He kicks at the leaves. “I don’t know. But there are some things that just _are_ , and you can’t argue with them.”

“Reid, I’m too tired to work out if this is one of those things. Can you—can you just accept that this time? God, you think I _want_ it to be this hard, that I want to lie awake every night debating whether it was Em, or me, or you, or any combination of the above that got us here right now? Can _you_ tell me? Because right now, months later, I can’t – I still can’t – and I’m too fucking tired to hang the blame on anyone other than Kyle Lawrence.”

He snorts. “Hotch, you and I both know that even if you say that, we’ll spend the rest of our fucking lives re-living and going over the last year.”

“Reid—”

“—Okay,” he says softly.

“What?”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll accept it,” he whispers. “But you have to answer this: why did you leave? Why did you _actually_ leave?”

Hotch laughs humourlessly. “You know, JJ was the first to know. She found me crying in my office at ten-thirty one night. And I told her, and she tried to figure it out, as if it had something to do with Henry and Jack. Which it did, I suppose.”

“It wasn’t the entire story.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he agrees. “After what happened at the compound, I couldn’t see the point of me as the unit chief. An UNSUB is an UNSUB, but all actions have consequences. And I couldn’t have, or didn’t do enough.”

Reid’s eyes widen. “Hotch, I’m—”

“—No, we’re not doing this again. I know you’re sorry.”

He nods, thinking it over. Minutes pass, where he scuffs his feet against the mountain of leaves and stares at the bright colours of the flowers in stark contrast with the slate-grey of the headstone. _Not unlike the woman herself_. “Everyone else thinks it’s because of Jack. It’s what you told them, and they’re not gonna push.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Hotch says evenly. “I was going to tell everyone _except_ you. Until JJ told me how stupid that would be.”

Reid shrugs. “Not entirely stupid; you didn’t want to complicate it further. But it doesn’t matter anyway. Because, like I said, there’s no way we’d ever stop thinking about it. Or deserve to.”

“We can get better. You can move on.”

“She was my _friend_ , Hotch,” he hisses. “Maybe not in the same way as she was to you, but still.”

His eyes flash, dark pools growing darker still. “We get better, Spencer. It fucking hurts, but _we get better_.”

“Yeah, too little, too late” he says, going back to playing with the leaves. “I—um… I’ve been seeing a therapist. Petersen, who usually works with Counter-Terrorism. And I—um… I didn’t say anything for the first session. Em would have been proud.”

“Yeah,” Hotch smirks. “She would have. And then she’d have told you about the boxes in her head, and she would have laughed with you for a while, and then she’d have turned serious and told you to keep seeing them.”

“Right.”

“How’s it going?”

“Okay. I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I’m supposed to pick something.”

He looks at the younger man from out of the corner of his eye. “And what have you chosen?”

“I don’t know if I can just walk away; this is what I’ve always done, and it just happened. Which is probably reason enough to move on,” he says. “But Petersen, everyone else—”

“—fuck everyone and everything else,” Hotch interrupts with harsh laugh. “You go back, because you’re a valued team member – and you always have been – and because the team would welcome you back. Or you don’t, because you can be better for yourself and for everyone else in this goddamn world if you do something else. This is _your chance_. Don’t fuck it up.”

He’s silent for a moment, reflective. ( _god, almost there_.) “I’m not the person I want to be.”

“Who the fuck is?” Hotch snorts. “One just needs to be good enough. And you are.”

“Good enough for what?”

“For the moment,” he answers with a twisted smile. “That’s all that’s ever mattered.”

“Sounds like something Emily would have said,” Reid says.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, releasing a tiny sigh. “I loved her. Still do.”

“I know.”

“I thought…” He trails off, bending to kneel at the grey stone, tracing a finger tenderly against her name, against the lack of any future between them. He bows his head, almost resting it against the cold cold surface. “Doesn’t matter. Karma’s a bitch, and it doesn’t exist.”

Reid exhales, watches his breath mingle in the air in front of him. He tilts his head up to the sky, eyes following the hypnotic movements of the clouds carelessly forming themselves into shapes. It’s quiet, and he lets them have the moment.

“What are you going to do now?”

Hotch straightens and slowly stands. “I have a class in an hour. Then I’m going to pick up Jack from school. I’m going to go home, and I’m going to make dinner, and Jack will hopefully not get too mad because I only have carrots and tomatoes left in the fridge.”

“How… how is he?”

He regards him carefully. “Better. And better than I am. More resilient than I’ve ever wished for him to have to be.”

“Hotch—”

“—Spencer,” he says, voice low and commanding. “We fucked up. We fucked up spectacularly. And you’re right; we will _both_ carry this to our graves. Emily deserves better than for us to forget that. But she also deserves better than for us to stay locked in whatever hellhole we’ve dug ourselves into. She risked her life to keep us safe from Doyle, she sacrificed the only chance she had to be part of a family, she _came back to us_ when she told me it would have been _so much easier_ for her to stay hidden in Europe under three different aliases. She came back, and god, the number of nights she spent in the bathroom with tears down her face, with her gun pointed at the door, just waiting… And she died. She died, still trying to work her way past those seven months of hell, and she died, knowing how _proud_ I was of her. She died knowing how much I— _we_ —fucking loved her. And I finally, finally, got it the other day – she died and _she_ doesn’t get a second or a third or a fourth chance. But you and I will never forget that _we_ do. So you go back to the team, or you don’t, it doesn’t matter. You figure out what you need to do, and you do it, and you don’t forget that. And that’s all there is.”

He gets softer and softer, and Reid tries his best to stop the tears from spilling again. “I feel like I should be angry for longer. Like I should need to be.”

“Don’t get me wrong – I’m still angry and most days I wake up and I just _can’t_. But I think you and I are too fucking tired right now to want anything more,” he replies. “And so, I’m going to go, and I’m going to teach because _someone_ needs to know how people think, and I’m going home. And that’s it.”

“It’s a start,” Reid agrees quietly, before nodding and trying to pull himself up. “Can I—I don’t know how, or if you’d ever want to, but can I—can I call? And I don’t know when, or if I’d ever—it’s not like the others, it’s different, but—”

“—Whenever,” he replies, certain. “It’ll never _not_ be my team.”

He takes a shaky breath and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

Hotch nods, gives him a brief hug, and steps back. ( _simple things, spencer_. _like last time_.) The leaves crunch again as he turns away.

( _things die and drift and grow again. please rinse and repeat for eternity._ )

“Be well, Reid.”


End file.
